


break, bleed, find

by frosmxths



Category: ONEUS (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Injury, M/M, Pre-OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26485444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frosmxths/pseuds/frosmxths
Summary: It’s still gross—the sound of bodies breaking, the smell of blood burning his senses— it’s all gross, brings bile rising up Seoho's throat and makes his breath hitch—The sight of it is sickening—the sight of rivers of red and of putrid,rottingflesh—Surviving— finding something, finding each other, at the end of the world.
Relationships: Kim Geonhak | Leedo/Lee Seoho, Lee Seoho & Yeo Hwanwoong
Comments: 11
Kudos: 44
Collections: WEUS Harvest Moon Fest





	break, bleed, find

The air around them is stagnant, smell gross on Seoho’s tongue and lungs. Today, they’re right outside a warehouse—abandoned just like everything else, smelling like pooled water and dirt—like a hundred years of death crawling at their feet—gross and suffocating. From the door, half-open, they can see some of the inside— the place seems to be small, boxes of nothing valuable in disorganized messes— blood covered uniforms of some forgotten store chain over the floor and furniture. There’s blood on the walls, too, both inside and outside—all spelling messages of caution, someone’s last laments before succumbing to _something_.

Seoho breathes—tears his eyes away from bloody messages, focuses on finding the undead. From where he’s standing, he can see about five of them—enough for Seoho to deal with on his own so Geonhak can sneak past and make it to their goal—

Their goal is past them—it’s another door, a fridge.

Their target this time is food—shortage of it at their rundown base making it harder to stay standing.

There’s probably not much, but it’s still something—still a stroke of luck, really, in a world gone to hell.

He breathes in again—then out, tightens his hold on the worn-out bat that’s become as familiar as his own limbs over the last few months. He feels his body tense, back against the wall, the scutter of undead footsteps loud and threatening in his ears.

In front of him, Geonhak clenches his fists—breathing in synch and knife held tightly in a gloved hand.

It’s more than a little dangerous, both of them know this—know that one misstep could lead to their demise, that any mistake could cost them and their whole group too much.

Seoho swallows, looks away from the door—he catches Geonhak’s eye, tries for something that’s meant to be a reassuring smile—

Geonhak rolls his eyes, playful through his nerves—and then they both hold their breaths and _wait_.

One—two—three—

A breath—the little alarm in both their pockets rings in silence—a weak, quiet vibration— a signal from Harin back at home to take a step forward—to move, become the centre of attention.

Seoho gives Geonhak a smirk now, twists one of his wrists and breathes—fraction of a second of nothing before he lifts up the bat—

And then he unnecessarily kicks the door open the rest of the way, loud as it hits the wall.

Undead eyes land on him—as piercing as they are numbing.

He smiles, gives Geonhak a wave before he runs forward and leaves him behind. Their breathing goes out of synch now, Seoho’s ears ringing and limbs light in their movements. He swings the bat to one side—a clean movement that gets the first two, sound of skin on metal loud as bodies hit shelves, bent metal bars and long-forgotten boxes of nothing falling to the floor, cluttering and breaking.

It’s still gross—the sound of bodies breaking, the smell of blood burning his senses— it’s all gross, brings bile rising up his throat and makes his breath hitch—

The sight of it is sickening—the sight of rivers of red and of putrid, _rotting_ flesh—

Everything is so _sickening_ —from the smell of the world they’re thrown into every day, to the dirt under his fingernails and against his taste buds—from the taste of death and something _sick_ and disgusting wherever he goes, to the breaking and wailing of lost humanity.

He jumps away—over fallen objects that dig against the back of his legs and metal that echoes when it hits against his shoulder. He bites his bottom lip, glances at the door for a second to see Geonhak’s figure pass by—quick on his feet as he heads to the opposite side of the warehouse—

And then Seoho feels a pull on his leg, something—someone— _something that used to be_ _someone_ on the floor grabbing around his calf and a digging through his clothes— one of the fallen ones, a mistake on Seoho’s part for not being careful enough, for looking away for a second—

He breathes in, pulls back back _back_ and feels something _stabbing_ at his leg _—_ hard enough for the hand to snap, pants ripping with the strength of the _pull—_

There’s a loud crack—wet and suffocating as Seoho steps back—

He feels like throwing up, ignores the way his head spins to move. He swings his bat down at bony fingers—again at a void face of open wounds and maggots that crawl crawl _crawl—_

Seoho can almost feel them over his skin, can almost feel the ghost of them on his legs and under his clothes—

He breathes in, swings back down again—movements sharp and fast.

The sound is louder this time—louder and _wet_ , accompanied by wailing that makes something in Seoho stir—

It sounds _human_ , sounds like something and like _someone_ he could’ve known when things were _okay_ and—

He breathes out, a gasp— His brain overheats, senses alert—and he feels on autopilot when he moves forward, lips shut tightly as he swings his bat again—hits the one by his feet, a finishing blow that gets it to stop moving, splatters blood and rotting guts all over the floor—

Seoho glances at the floor—immediately looks up as bile rises rises _rises_ — There’s still one of them left standing close to him—he counted, he _knows_ — and he’s about to walk forward when there’s a noise behind him—and then Seoho feels _it_ against his skin, his back. Feels the scratching of fingernails and the pull—

He swings back—hits against a shelf, box falling over his head, metal rods that were meant to be _god_ knows falling with it and against his forehead—he ducks, gets hit anyway but manages to hit the undead, somehow, and it lets go.

He takes a step forward, away from the shelf—trips on a fallen body as he holds a hand over the steady flow of blood on his forehead, bat falling somewhere by his feet as his head spins from pain pain _pain—_

He tries to ignore it, breathes in and out—shaky and loud to his own ears, glasses broken and the world blurry blurry _blurry_ —

His head hurts, bleeds, and his steps are shaky and he barely feels himself able to _stand_ —He tries to reach for the bat again, can’t see over the blood that’s slipped past his hand and is now dripping over his eyes.

_Shit._

Something grabs at his leg, something at his arm—Seoho yells out, voice breaking and itching on desperate ( _fuck)_ , struggles and throws his elbow back, feels it hit flesh and feels blood and whatever the _fuck_ else over his arm—

He gets himself free, somehow, runs forward in unsteady feet. His arms _hurt,_ feel burning under his sleeves—and he realizes it’s more cuts, fresh on his skin and nothing but _nasty_ —he feels new tears on his pants, too, feels his own blood mixing in with the smell of something rotten and dirty.

He stops, leans on a shelf with uneven breaths, hears the rattling of boxes and whatever else to the floor, is about to turn and run to Geonhak—

A zombie shows up, takes over his field of vision, and Seoho distinctly feels that this is how he could _die_ , arms burning and red dripping down his face _—_

And then there’s movement, a cut straight to the _thing’s_ jugular, a river of blood on Seoho’s clothes and skin.

There’s the sound of something breaking—grotesque _crack_ ringing in Seoho’s ears with a hit—

Disgusting disgusting _disgusting—_

He can’t _breathe._

There’s a step on concrete floor—one that’s too discreet but confident to be an undead, but way too light to be Geonhak.

Seoho’s vision goes _white—_ there’s cuts on his arms and legs and _face_ and he can feel stabbing pain in places he doesn’t even _remember_ hitting and—

And he still can’t _breathe—_ and it hurts it hurts it fucking _hurts—_

A lithe hand grabs at his wrist— not Geonhak— and Seoho recoils, adrenaline ringing in his ears and legs so close to just giving out— He takes a step back, hits the back of his foot on the shelf and sends a shock of white white pain that makes him see black—

Whoever is in front of him winces as well, lets go of Seoho and seems unsteady on their feet before stepping forward towards Seoho again—

“Are you okay?” And Seoho’s vision comes back from white-hot dread, grounded by the feel of someone _human_ against his skin—the feel of red and warm blood that drips from fingertips and matches the ghost of pain that runs up his left hand and to his spine.

Seoho blinks, brings himself back to reality—focuses on listening to breathing, steps, _crawling—_

Silence.

He breathes out.

“Thanks, yeah” Seoho’s voice is _shaky_ , he’s out of breath still, feels more than a little weak as he brings a hand up to wipe at blood that’s drying up over his face. “Needed that, I think”

He focuses on the other, then.

The stranger is shorter than Seoho, with bleached blonde hair that sticks to his face with sweat and clothes messy messy _messy—_ there’s scratches on his face, evident nail marks that go down the side of his neck and there’s a _lot_ of blood on him—running down his left hand, dried over his worn-out shirt and jacket, on his thighs and on his lips—

Seoho’s hand falls from his forehead, lingers a second over his lips—mirror to the wound on the other’s, ghost of a touch on Seoho’s own skin.

The stranger sighs, seems relieved for a second—

And then he winces again, holds his own left arm with a quiet swear.

“Are _you_ okay, though?” Seoho frowns, ghosts his right hand over his left forearm—a mirror to the other, again.

The stranger looks up at him with wide eyes—a little dazed for a second before he comes back.

“No—yes” Seoho laughs a little at that, reaches out to push the other’s hand away from his arm, then pulls the bleeding hand up so he can look at it properly. The stranger lets him, tense, seems to be ready to jump and flee at any point. “Just a little hurt”

His last words are mumbled out, as if trying to push away his own pain. Seoho’s frown deepens, he holds the other’s hand a little more firmly, enough that the grip’s a little painful (ignores the way it stings his _own_ wrist as well, not too intent on thinking about soulmates when he’s with a stranger and they’re both seconds away from collapsing and _where the hell is Geonhak?_ ), then pushes the sleeve of the loose jacket he’s wearing up and past his elbow.

“You’re worse than me” The wound underneath is _nasty_ —seems to have been stuck to the material of the guy’s jacket, if the way he had hissed and the way Seoho’s own arm hurt were anything to go by. The stranger laughs—dismissing with a shrug.

“It’ll heal” Seoho lets go, the guy tries to roll down his sleeve, but Seoho stops him—hand firm and expression stern.

“It’ll get infected” He drops his hand, and the stranger relents with another shrug. “And then we’re _both_ gonna be in deep shit”

The stranger only blinks at him, seems to be about to say something when heavy steps reach Seoho’s ears.

Ah—Geonhak.

In a second, there’s a knife to the stranger’s throat, Geonhak’s free hand holding the guy’s right arm back back so he doesn’t get his own knife out to retaliate. Seoho feels the sting of Geonhak’s knife against his throat, a thin line of pain that has his breath stuttering slightly.

“Hyung—” Geonhak sounds a mix of worried and mad—face doing that cute little scrunch it tended to whenever he was irritated. The stranger’s left arm is unmoving, sleeve of his jacket dropping slightly and stinging the wound—

And it’s now that Seoho notices the way his right leg seems to be _shaking_ —seems to struggle to even keep him up.

“Hey” Seoho smiles, points with a finger at the stranger’s face. “Turn the knife, please don’t kill him” Light-hearted. Geonhak squints at him and the stranger grunts—struggles against Geonhak’s hold for a second again, right hand clawing at his arm and left leg tense, right one trying to kick but looking all too weak—and then he stops, teeth clenched a second before he just frowns, looks very much like an angry cat.

“Who’s this?” Geonhak asks, turns the knife in his hand so the dull end is against the stranger’s neck, nonetheless. Seoho shrugs, eyes the stranger a second—looks up at Geonhak with a softer smile.

“Dunno” Geonhak makes an irritated noise, seems to be about to whine when Seoho puts his hand to his own lips in a little _shush_ motion. “Seems pretty beat up, though”

The stranger tenses a little at that, gives a weak kick behind him—and Seoho’s head starts to spin a little, air suddenly colder—

He steps closer, wordlessly places a hand to the stranger’s forehead.

It feels _warm_ —sweat doing nothing to cool him down and skin tinted red—

Seoho thought it could’ve been from exertion when first seeing him, movements a little shaky and eyes a little lost— thought it could’ve been from movement when fighting undead—but then he felt that _burning_ —one that has been haunting him for a few days, always at the back of his head— felt his thigh prickle with little needles despite the lack of any wounds on it, the stings of pain where he could _see_ the other was wounded—and then he felt, _saw_ , the way his breathing seemed to be laboured despite the other’s efforts, the way his arm and leg and _everything_ had shaken—was still shaking.

It didn’t feel like it was from physical activity anymore— and, if Seoho was right, then the reason _he_ has been feeling so weak for the past few days might very well be this guy. The reason his head has been spinning and his movements have been a little slower than usual—if Seoho was right, it’s all been because this guy has been close to _collapsing_ for the same amount of time.

That was kind of how soulmates worked—you shared pain, felt their wounds and illness as little ghosts of sensation in your body, felt emotions as thoughts that were fleeting and void of reason— Seoho had long since grown accustomed to pain, to thoughts that seemed to come and go as they please, so he hadn’t really noticed anything so far—hadn’t really attributed anything to the presence of _someone else_.

If Seoho was right, this stranger was his soulmate. He could tell—could tell by by the way their pain matched, the way his lip was cut where Seoho could feel his own throb—the way his arm looked like _shit_ where Seoho’s own stung— the ghosts of pain he has been feeling for _days_ —

If Seoho was right, which he always is, then the stranger posed no threat, either— he had helped Seoho out, saved his ass from certain death—Seoho couldn’t see him as a threat.

Seoho sighs, signals for Geonhak to lower the knife. Geonhak does, and the stranger makes no effort to push away from where he is against Geonhak’s chest—seems to fall more against him, in fact, arms slack and dropping to his sides, head pushed back by Seoho’s hand.

“What’s your name?” Seoho feels _burning_ under his hand—quickly rising and more than a little worrying— feels pooling sweat and strangely soft hair on his palm and fingers.

“Yeo Hwanwoong” The stranger’s—Hwanwoong’s—voice sounds pained, edges of it just a little shaky with what’s clear effort to _not_ seem weak. Geonhak pushes him forward slightly and off his chest—Hwanwoong gets steady on his feet with his breathing still laboured and his legs shaking. He takes a moment—seems to stabilize before he looks up at Seoho and speaks again. “Yours?”

“Lee Seoho” Geonhak puts his knife away and rolls his neck back, brings a hand up to pull at hair at the nape of his neck—he’s stressed, a little confused and frustrated— Seoho knows how he is. Hwanwoong nods, blinks his eyes at nothing—

A second of silence.

Hwanwoong puts his own knife away, too. Seoho runs a hand through his hair—feels the ghost of Hwanwoong’s headache. He takes a second to pick up his damn _bat_ , distract himself from thoughts of pain and of soulmates—then speaks up again, bat leaning on his shoulder and lips in a frown. “Only giving it because you saved my ass just now”

Seoho laughs at the end of his words, and Hwanwoong snorts— hands now in his jacket’s pockets—and Seoho finds it kind of amazing, really, how the guy seemed to be able to hold himself together when _his_ fever was giving Seoho a headache so bad he wants to take a nap. “You’re welcome for that”

“Your fault I nearly died though” He lowers the bat, beckons Geonhak towards him with a hand. Geonhak tilts his head to the side slightly, and Seoho only replies with a gesture of his hand that’s a little more aggressive— _come here._ He turns his eyes back to Hwanwoong, gives him a once-over. “Don’t know how you’re still _standing_ ”

Hwanwoong shrugs. “I’m fine”

Seoho rolls his eyes, motions at Geonhak again—Geonhak doesn’t move, blinks. Seoho drops his hand—seems to give up on his first message, switches instead to just motion _up_ with his finger.

Geonhak follows with his eyes—sighs and picks Hwanwoong up almost effortlessly. Hwanwoong squawks, quickly moves to grip at the front of Geonhak’s shirt more than a little fearful and tense. Seoho smiles at him, absent-mindedly raises his bat a second—lowers it with more than a little strength, brings a sickening _crack_ as it hits the head of an undead on the floor, spreads _sickening_ lack of humanity all over the floor.

“What the hell—” Hwanwoong’s voice is almost a squeak—tired and more than a little shaken—carefully crafted façade gone to the wind. Seoho replies only with a yelled out _aaaa_ before Geonhak kicks at him—and then Seoho laughs, drags his bat on the floor behind him as he walks towards the fridge door.

“You have a fever, I can tell” Ignoring the pain in his own limbs, and with his forehead very much still bloody, Seoho pushes open the door, rusted hinges breaking with the strength of a blow that might’ve been unnecessary—it sends a rivet of pain to the back of his neck, makes Hwanwoong complain quietly in Geonhak’s arms. Seoho doesn’t turn to look at them, lets his bat rise and fall a little against the floor—quick tap tap _tap_ of metal on concrete a little soothing.

Seoho’s voice turns to something a little softer, then, and he smiles at nothing at the same time he shrugs. “No fooling your soulmate” Hwanwoong clicks his tongue—Seoho ignores him.

There’s a second of silence then, Seoho’s eyes scanning the shelves—the fridge isn’t even a little bit cold, but hopefully at least _something_ is salvageable—it hadn’t been that long since electricity collapsed on this side of the city.

“Geonhakkie” Seoho’s voice cuts through the silence, and Geonhak makes a noise behind him, nose scrunched up again and head tilted just a little bit to the side. Hwanwoong stays quiet, seems to have given up on saying anything and, if Seoho’s growing headache and the horrible _burning_ of his limbs is anything to go by, his condition is quickly worsening now that he’s not driven by adrenaline and fear—

Such is the human body, after all.

“Have you called Youngjo-hyung?” Seoho turns around as he speaks, metal on concrete dragging loudly. Geonhak nods.

“He’s on his way”

“Just gotta wait, then” Seoho sighs—watches the way Geonhak’s eyes are glued to his face—to his forehead, blood drying on his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose. He gives him a half-smile. “I’m fine, dude”

Geonhak breathes out a huff, looks away with a frown. “Sorry for being late”

And then Seoho laughs, steps forward to pat at Geonhak’s cheek. “It’s cool”

“It’s not—” Seoho puts a finger to his lips, grin on his face.

“It’s fine—I usually last longer, just had a—” He looks at Hwanwoong, then, and Hwanwoong gives him a weak glare, already looking halfway to falling asleep, grip he has on Geonhak going slack. “little problem today” And then his eyes are back on Geonhak’s, smile turning into one that's more than a little _caring_. “Thanks for having my back, really”

Geonhak clicks his tongue, breaks eye contact with a self-deprecating frown—Seoho pulls his hand away, scratches at the little red lines on his wrist, flecks of dried up blood falling on his sleeve. He frowns.

“Need to patch up my clothes again” Geonhak snorts at that, lips turning to a little smile before he leans forward to lightly tap his forehead against Seoho’s—moves away quickly, as if it had never happened at all.

“Let’s ask Youngjo-hyung when we’re home?” Seoho sighs—nods.

After this they just have to wait—wait and stay quiet, just in case something else is roaming close-by—just in case the undead wake up and they have to run with two injured people and a bruised Geonhak.

Seoho drags himself until his back is resting against a wall—then slides down until he’s sitting, clothes dirtying further as he rubs a hand at his forehead—winces a little from the pain. Geonhak follows, stops in front of Seoho, Hwanwoong still in his arms—wincing slightly when Seoho digs his nails into the wounds again, lips parted in laboured breathing.

“What the hell” Seoho’s voice is a mutter at nothing, and Geonhak huffs out a tiny laugh before carefully sitting down next to him, Hwanwoong still held in his arms carefully—Geonhak shifts him slightly, lets Hwanwoong’s head rest against his shoulder, his breathing _hot_ on Geonhak’s neck. Seoho turns his head slightly with a smile and half-closed eyes, drops so he’s resting on Geonhak’s shoulder, too, Hwanwoong’s hair tickling his face.

Geonhak gives him an awkward head pat, scrunches up his nose.

“We need medicine” Geonhak’s voice is low—soothing. Seoho hums in reply, lifts a hand up to play with Hwanwoong’s hair.

Geonhak watches.

“You, meeting your soulmate like this” Hwanwoong stirs together with a flash of pain on Seoho’s arm—Seoho winces, curls a little towards Geonhak. “is somehow really fitting, huh” Geonhak gives Seoho’s leg an awkward pat, and Seoho laughs—lets his eyes fall open, hand still playing with messy locks.

“’Cause I’m a weirdo, whatever” Seoho’s voice is lilted with laughter. He lifts his head and hand up, pushes away from the wall to sit cross-legged and facing Geonhak’s side. He brings his hand up again—this time runs it from the back of his head to Hwanwoong’s forehead—plays a little with his bangs, pushes them aside, sweaty and gross.

He’s cute—Hwanwoong, that is. Seoho’s not a romantic in any way—gave up on something like _soulmates_ way before the world even went to hell, sort of assumed it didn’t matter—a chance of one in billions, what was the point of hoping for that.

And then the world went to hell—and Seoho thought it even _more_ impossible—his soulmate was most likely dead, whatever, he never met them—they never got to mean anything to him.

But—now he’s here. Asleep and with what’s most likely more than one infected wound—has many others that look bad enough to need more than a little medical interference from their mis-matched group that knew the bare minimum—but alive.

His soulmate exists—Seoho got to meet him, alive and in the middle of hell.

He pokes at Hwanwoong’s cheek—the other continues sleeping.

He’s not a romantic—not at all, even in love with Geonhak as he is—but he wonders if things might change in some way, if worry over wounds and ghost pains is going to increase—if the way he’s carefully closed off his heart will somehow be broken through by Hwanwoong, much like Geonhak did before, when he dragged Seoho into their little hideout and tended to his wounds—careful and worried even if they were strangers.

Seoho drops his hand, goes back to lean on the wall and Geonhak’s shoulder. His limbs are all buzzing—both from Hwanwoong’s wounds stinging and from his own bruises and cuts—he wants to nap, wants to go home and clean up—clean wounds so they don’t get infected—

Hwanwoong’s being _this_ bad is enough—he doesn’t wanna make it worse for either of them, even if they’ve just met.

He sighs—feels it hitting Hwanwoong’s hair and Geonhak’s neck—and Geonhak hums, eyes lost somewhere on the ceiling.

It’s whatever—what existing will become, what Seoho’s heart will do—it’s all whatever—

All that matters is staying alive, for now, until forever.

He lets his eyes fall closed again, murmurs of nothing on his lips as they wait.

**Author's Note:**

> had fun playing with the prompt hehe
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/frosmxths)
> 
> [cc](https://curiouscat.me/frosmxths)


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